It was a weekend. A day where I wasn’t really planning to feel anything intense, but to simply go about the day the way a nonchalant person might. I woke up late, around 8:30 AM. It was February, and Hyderabad was slowly getting ready for the summer heat. My bed sits right against a window that faces the playground of a rather luxurious apartment complex. That view is one of my favourites. If you ask why, there are many reasons. I could simply say that it is like the way you love sunflowers, or lilies, or the beaches, or the mountains, or even a particular gelato combination only you understand. Some things are simply loved without explanation. But I’ll tell you why.

Every evening, and sometimes even earlier if the children are especially energetic, they gather at the ground to play. I love the giggles. I love how carefree it feels, the way children simply exist in the present moment. It feels almost like they are indulging in existence as it unfolds. There is also a beautiful home in that view. I have never really seen anyone actively tending to it, yet the house carries a certain charm. It looks like the kind of place that could take me back to another time, the kind of place where I could sit and write stories that people might romanticize about centuries later.

I imagine myself sitting across the verandah, where there is a swing. The huge trees bending just enough to cast the perfect shade, the kind of shade under which I would sun-dry tomatoes. A terrace where, at night, I could stand with my beloved and look up at the moon, the sky, and the stars, quietly reminding us to pause for a few hours in life.

But anyway.

That morning when I woke up and saw the playground empty, I didn’t spend much time staring at it. I brushed my teeth and, carrying feelings I rarely share with the world, perhaps because those feelings feel like pearls and not everyone is meant to hold them, I decided to walk to a nearby breakfast spot. My orders there are always simple. Either a ghee karam dosa or idly. I’ve always felt idly is the safest choice. Wrapped in soft white cotton cloth while steaming, they come out looking so gentle that I feel like my stomach and them could be very good friends.

I’ll be honest with you, I wasn’t doing very well then.

I carried heavy feelings I couldn’t quite name. Perhaps you know the kind. There are days when it feels like you are at war with yourself. But I also consider myself a blessed person. Because whenever I sit quietly in a crowd, something eventually catches my attention. And if I am alone with nature, poetry and philosophy tend to find me like old friends.

This happened to be one of those lucky days.

I had ordered steaming idlies, forty rupees a plate, and was ready to eat when I noticed a mother standing nearby with her toddler son. This little eatery doesn’t really offer seating. The mission there is quite clear. They never say it out loud, but the rule seems to be, if you want your food quickly, don’t sit, just eat and leave. So the mother and the child were standing as well. The boy looked about three years old. The kind of child who still prefers to be carried everywhere. His mother held him in one arm while feeding him breakfast with the other. What I saw in that moment taught me something, not something entirely new, but something I understood in a more poetic way.

To be loved is to be tolerated. And, to love someone is to be patient with them.

The mother looked tired, but there was no anger in her eyes. She carried her toddler calmly, feeding him patiently even though she herself must have been hungry. She sacrificed something in that moment. It might appear small, but it isn’t. It reminded me of an elderly couple who live across from our home in my hometown. I respectfully call them grandpa and grandma.

Grandpa passed away just yesterday. He was 94 years old. Grandma must be around ~85 years old. For years, I would see them almost every day from the kitchen window. Sitting across from each other. Talking. Existing together. For years they chose each other every single day. They tolerated each other every single day. They chose to remain companions even after terrible fights. Ninety-four years of life. Imagine that. There must have been days of boredom, frustration, exhaustion. Yet the companionship was strong enough that they always returned to the same rhythm.

Yesterday was the first night grandma had to sleep without him.

His physical presence is no longer there, and she must now live the rest of her life without her best friend. They loved each other patiently. They tolerated each other without hesitation. There must have been days when one of them was sick, and the other quietly served. Days when one behaved foolishly, yet the other still chose them.

Just like the mother at the eatery who patiently carried and fed her child. Because love like that, non-toxic, simple, patient, is accepted without judgment, no matter how complicated life becomes. I left the eatery before the mother and her son did. I’m sure the child would have eventually caused some chaos, maybe even earned a small scolding, followed by a few warm kisses.